


As You Will

by doomcanary



Series: Conquest [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary





	As You Will

Merlin draws back his sleeve, and looks at the discolouring mark on his wrist. It's purple and grey-black; no longer red, but not old enough to yellow at the edges. There are scabs in places, where - he isn't going back to that. He takes a jar from his pocket, one of Gaius's salves, and gingerly spreads the thick, greenish-yellow ointment over the bruise. Then he draws back his other sleeve, and treats those marks too. Gaius doesn't know he has the jar.

Arthur was – he's never seen Arthur like that. So cold, so intent. There's a warmth in Arthur, though he likes to hide it; he loathes his own good heart. Merlin has no idea where he hid that heart yesterday, or the day before. He can still feel the straw under his fingers, prickling through his shirt; he can still hear Gwen's voice, feel the certainty even before she lets go of the loaf that he won't be able to reach it when it lands.

Arthur _had_ him, in the palm of his hand. Everything planned out, every last morsel of humiliation considered and thought through. Merlin has to draw breath when he thinks of it, and he shudders as he does, the air seeming inadequate, not quite filling his lungs. The Arthur he knew was gone, in that dungeon, replaced by – by –

He has a list of tasks to do. Delivered to him this morning, on a sheet of fucking _parchment_ like a royal bloody decree. What does Arthur want from him? Gods, how is he supposed to know – how can he ever work that out when he's supposed to be doing fifty trivial things at once, as if Arthur hadn't – done whatever he did. Arthur wants him to fetch and carry, traipse around the city, count the sodding cobblestones. Arthur wants him to dance for his master like fucking dog Toby at a fair. He's not doing it; he's hidden away in a corner of the ramparts where the walls trap the sun, taking care of his injuries. He shakes whenever he thinks about getting up.

Arthur made him strip. Naked as the day he was born. Then he'd drawn his dagger, and the tiny flecks of light on its razor tip had pursued Merlin, forcing him back against the table, over it, down on his back across the tabletop.

“Stay still,” Arthur said, and pulled away. Merlin heard the rattle of the shackles again, and _he doesn't fucking know why he didn't move_. Why he let Arthur chain his wrists around the table leg. Arthur said to him in a creamy, dangerous voice “What happened, Merlin?”, and he didn't lie, he didn't tell Arthur some bullshit or other just to get away.

What he did was turn his head away and close his eyes. He's doing the same now, though he doesn't realise it. He can almost feel the hard flatness of the wood against his back again.

“You don't own my fucking thoughts,” he said.

There was a pause, and he flinched hard as a gloved finger brushed his cheek; he turned his head again, sight better than uncertainty, and met eyes as hard as pebbles of turquoise. The solitary, unwelcome touch traced down his jaw.

“You are a servant of Camelot,” said Arthur quietly. “Your life is mine, if I wish.”

The dagger was still in his hand; his fingertip left Merlin's face, went to support the tip of the blade as Arthur turned it slowly in his fingers. Light oozed and flashed on the metal as it flipped over and over.

“Tell me what happened.”

It had been stupid. A brawl over an insult. Merlin would never have let fly in the first place if he hadn't been – hadn't been crawling with the memory of chainmail on his skin, and hands that held him as hard as shackles. Arthur's hands had been warm, so warm; that memory came back to him suddenly, the ghost of a touch on his wrists where iron bit cold and unyielding.

Somewhere in himself, Merlin found a dribble of bitter amusement. “I smacked a stable boy for calling you queer,” he said.

Arthur's face betrayed nothing; it was his knife hand that stilled, the narrow blade ceasing its restless motion.

“Did you,” he said. The cold point of the blade touched Merlin's chest, light on his skin. Merlin flinched.

“I must be gallant or something,” he said, a little hysterically.

The knife-point pressed in; a bead of pain, not quite drawing blood.

“Do you understand, Merlin,” said Arthur, “that every inch of your body, every second of your life, belongs to Camelot? That you are nothing but a reflection of the will of the Crown?”

Panic evaporated before seething anger. “No,” said Merlin. “No I fucking don't. You cannot own me, Arthur. I don't belong to anyone.” Gods, he thinks, clenching his fingers on the edge of the narrow bench he sits on. Is he suicidal or something, talking like that to the guy with the knife?

But Arthur hadn't cut him open. The knife-point had disappeared.

“You are not my property, then?” Arthur asked calmly.

“No,” said Merlin. Arthur didn't react; unease began to nibble at Merlin's thoughts.

“You are perfectly free, to do as you please,” Arthur went on.

“Yes.”

He remembers realising it; his stomach dropping as he worked out Arthur was going to tell him to stand up. Of course he was, this was about stripping Merlin down in every way. Body and mind. Arthur had gone mad, somewhere between his sword and the men it had killed.

The iron key clicked into the lock, and the shackles fell away.

“As you will, Merlin,” said Arthur. “You are free to go.”

 

Merlin wraps his arms round himself on the castle roof, feeling that sudden, terrible sense of exposure just as keenly now. For a second his head had swum; this wasn't happening, what the hell was Arthur doing? Where had he _gone?_ But then he'd felt his nakedness; he folded instinctively, covering himself. He slithered awkwardly off the table, reaching for his clothes. Arthur watched him dispassionately for a moment, then looked away; as if Merlin's body meant nothing to him, as if -

 

Merlin slams open the door to Arthur's chambers. Arthur is sitting by the table, his back to the door.

“Why,” says Merlin. “Tell me why you let me go.”

For the second time, the Prince's hand stills on his dagger; a long slice of reflected light steadies on the tabletop. The same table Merlin had been chained over, only yesterday; its emptiness is as insane as Merlin feels, as insane as the question he's asking Arthur now. Arthur slowly sits back in his chair; he straightens, until he's regal, the image of his father on the throne. He doesn't turn around.

“Complete that list of tasks, Merlin,” he says quietly, “and I will tell you why.”


End file.
